Spirit of the Phoenix
by Camaro-Enthusiast
Summary: Myka has always thought that she and Pete are connected in more ways than just through the Warehouse. She doesn't know why, but someone does. Why does that person not want Myka to find out anything about her past? Pete/Myka in later chapters. R&R.
1. Chapter 1: Myka

The man enters the building, his eyes scanning the rubble. It had been some fire. Testing the staircase for stability, he decides that it was safe.

He reaches for his radio. "Lattimer here. I found a secure way to the second floor. I'm going up. Over."

"Lattimer, be careful. There's structural damage all over the place," his boss radios. "Over."

"Got it. Over, boss."

Lattimer was a fire fighter, and he was darn good at it too. He got these vibes, eerie feelings that let him know when something weird was going on. It made him the best man on his squad.

At the moment, Lattimer had the scary feeling that whatever happened today would change some people's lives forever. He got to the second floor, surveying the blackened wall paper. It used to be a hospital, his boss had said. A maternity ward.

Remembering his own experience at the maternity ward, with his wife, he shivered. It seemed like only yesterday, but his son was now eight years old. His first cries would be forever embodied in Lattimer's memory. He could almost hear them now.

Actually, he _could_ hear someone crying now. And, it didn't sound like a baby.

Lattimer walks down the hallway, peaking into the last room on the hall. The fire hadn't harmed this room at all. The walls were a light pink, and a little girl sat on the bed with a smile on her face.

"Hello," she grins. "Did you come to save me? Where's my mommy?"

"Your mommy?" the man asks the child. "Was your mommy here when the fire started?"

"Silly, my mommy was the fire."

"What?" he asks, choking on the word as it flew from his mouth.

"My mommy _was_ the fire. She got this really pretty necklace, with a birdie on it. She called it a pheee-nix."

"A phoenix necklace," Lattimer nods, walking towards the little girl. Now this was weird.

"Uh-huh!" she smiles again, her almost-silver eyes sparkling. "She said that I was supposed to stay here, and not move. At all. Then, she went downstairs."

"Okay. How about you, are you okay?"

She grins, standing up and throwing her arms around Lattimer's neck. "Fine! I want to leave."

"Sure thing, sweetie. I'm going to see if we can find your mommy first," he smiles at her.

"Okay."

"You're going to sit here a little bit longer, okay?" he asks.

The curly haired brunette nods, plopping back down onto the bed.

"What's your mommy's name?"

"Mommy."

Lattimer smiles. "What do other people call your mommy?"

"Kelli," the little girl answers.

"Thanks," he winks at the child, and walks from the room, heading to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

"Who are you?" a female voice asks hoarsely.

"Lattimer, I'm with the D.C. Fire Department," he looks around for the voice. He opens the door to the stairs, and steps back as he takes in the scene. "Ma'am, are you Kelli?"

"Yes. You met my little one?" she asks, looking up at him through burnt bangs. "I need you to promise something."

"Ma'am, you'll be fine. We'll get you and your daughter out," he assures her.

"No," the woman shakes her head. "There's no way to fight this." Her fingers wrap around a pendant on a silver chain. "It's going to happen again. This will be the last time. I can't fight it anymore. Take my baby, and get out."

"Kelli, ma'am, it'll be fine," Lattimer says, holding his hand out for the necklace. "Tell me what happened."

"This, this _thing_, that's what happened," Kelli snaps. "My baby," she moans, "my poor baby. Growing up without her mother."

"That little girl has a mother; she has you. I have a feeling that she can't lose you."

"I can't survive any longer," the woman says, her head snapping up, looking Lattimer in the eyes.

The breath catches in his throat. Her eyes were a deep orange, appearing to be on fire themselves. "It's happening again. Get her out; get my baby out of here. Now!"

She screams, and light radiates from the pendant. She drops it, cradling her hand. "Now. Save her."

Lattimer steps towards the woman, and then turns around, running towards the child's room.

"Mister!" she grins, hopping up. "You're back. Can we go now? Did you find Mommy?"

"No. Sweetie," he says, putting on a smile as he picks her up, "We're gonna go outside. Maybe your mommy already got out."

"No," the girl shakes her head, stormy eyes sad. "I can tell. She couldn't have."

A scream comes from the stairwell. Lattimer grimaces, walking faster.

"Is that my mommy?" the little child asks, turning in his arms. "Mommy? Mommy, where are you?"

Lattimer starts jogging, heading down the stairs at the opposite end of the hall. A rumbling sends him tripping.

He braces himself, making sure not to jar the girl in his arms. "Lay down, sweetie."

He leans over her, taking off his heat resistant jacket and puts it over her. He covers her head, and lies on the floor next to her.

A large explosion _ka-booms_ through the former hospital. Lattimer gasps as a piece of shrapnel hits his back, embedding in the lower portion of his back.

The girl whimpers. "What's happening?"

"You'll be okay," Lattimer assures her. "What's your name, sweetie?" He asks, drawing in what could be his final breaths.

"Myka," she smiles at her name. She looks up the man who saved her. He wasn't moving. Scared, she repeats herself. "I'm Myka."

Lattimer doesn't reply. His weight on top of her was more than Myka had ever imagined. She crawls out from under him, heading towards the door.

Another man comes in, and picks her up, setting her outside. She watches as more men in yellow jackets enter the building with hoses.

"Find him!" she demands. "He saved me. Find him."

A dark-skinned woman comes, putting a hand on her shoulder. "He died."

Myka bursts into tears. "No."

The woman kneels next to the young girl. "He did. You must accept this."

"Go away! You're mean," the child crosses her arms, pouting.

"I'm honest," the woman smiles at Myka's antics. "My name's Mrs. Fredric."

"Hi," Myka mutters. "I'm Myka."

"I know," the African-American woman answers. "Come with me, Myka. We'll find a new mommy and daddy for you."

Myka follows the woman, scared of everything that had just happened. She sits in the dark-colored car, with Mrs. Fredric.

They drove, and drove. Myka fell asleep, wishing that she didn't remember any of this. She didn't want to know that her mommy died, or that the man who saved her died. She didn't want to remember any of that.

Mrs. Fredric looks down on the child curled up in the backseat.

A buzzing noise fills the backseat, and the woman opens a gold-colored box. A screen not unlike a TV screen appeared.

"What happened?" the man asks, his curly hair sticking up at all ends.

"Arthur," Mrs. Fredric tilts her head. "Quiet."

"All of my equipment told me the building blew up! What about the artifact?" Arthur Nielson asks frantically.

"Arthur," Mrs. Fredric scolds. "The girl is asleep."

"Girl?" he asks.

"Her name is Myka. Trust me, Arthur, she's important."

"It's not like she can grow up in the Warehouse," the man argues.

"I'm taking her to Colorado," Mrs. Fredric answers. "She's important, and her mother is dead. We can't take care of her, Arthur, but we will need her in the future."

"But, can Warren Bering take care of her? You know that he's horrible with kids," Arthur points out.

"Jean can help."

"Jean, you mean his former partner Jean?" he asks.

"Yes. Arthur, they don't remember anything about Warehouse 13, due to the frequent use of the floating moon rocks from 1969. Since they are now married, they will be perfect for this girl. She needs the type of upbringing that will be useful for us in the future."

"Don't you think this is a little overboard? I mean, grooming kids to become agents?" he asks, setting down his communication device. "Who's going to be her partner?"

"I already know," Mrs. Fredric replies.

"What's his name? Have they ever even met?" Arthur asks.

"His father just saved her life," the woman answers, staring at the sleeping child. "But, she'll never know that. I want one of the moon rocks shipped to Colorado immediately."

"You never told me his name," Arthur reminds her before she hangs up.

"Lattimer. Pete Lattimer."

* * *

**Review please!**


	2. Chapter 2: Pete

**AN: For the purposes of this story, Myka was born in 1978. Pete in 1974. The year is 1986.**

* * *

"Mom?" Pete Lattimer runs inside the house. "Mom? What's wrong?"

"Oh, Petey," she hugs him, and settles the boy on her lap. "I missed you today."

Pete grimaces. He was too old to be called Petey. "Mom, where's Dad?"

Jane Lattimer smiles at him, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Mommy," he hugs her again. "What's wrong?"

"Sweetie, you know how you said you had Daddy's vibe today," she ruffles his dark hair.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "What happened?"

She cries, her tears soaking his new blue tee-shirt.

"He should've listened!" Pete scoots off of his mother's lap. "I told him something was going to happen! Where is he? Mom, where is he?"

"Honey," she stands, reaching towards him. "Daddy's in heaven now."

"No!" he rips away from her grasp. "Why didn't he listen? Why?"

The little boy sinks to his knees, the tiles cold against his shorts-clad legs.

Jane Lattimer sits down on the floor, a difficult task for a woman four months pregnant. "Petey, honey. We'll be okay."

"No, we won't. Dad… Dad was what held us together. He was our glue," Pete argues.

"Sweetie," Jane smiles at her son. "You're twelve years old. Daddy was going to go to work no matter what you said. It was his job, and he knew the consequences. He loved us, and we'll miss him, but we are going to survive this."

"Mom," Pete shakes his head. "It's never going to be the same."

"No," she agrees. "It's not. It's you and me, Petey."

"And the baby," Pete looks at her oversized stomach.

"Uh-huh," his mother smiles. "Now, help your poor mom up. I don't think I'd be able to get up by myself."

"You really need to stop sitting on the floor," Pete comments, grabbing his mother's hand as he stood. "C'mon Mom."

Jane stands, with difficulty, and hugs her son. "I love you, Petey."

"Love you too Mom," he says, choosing not to bring up the fact that he hated being called Petey.

The next day was horrible. Pete's teachers had all been informed, and everyone was so careful of his feelings. His homeroom teacher, a big bossy woman named Mrs. Tyndale, announced to his entire class that they _had_ to be nice to little Petey Lattimer, because his daddy just died.

Pete clenches his jaw, and sits in the corner. Now, even his friends wouldn't talk to him, lest Mrs. Tyndale yell at them.

"Petey," she smiles at him, showing off a set of large, crooked teeth.

"Go away," he mutters. Even if he wasn't depressed, he might as well play the part. "I don't wanna talk."

"Okay. Well, do you want a snack? You should go see the kindergartners, they have snack time right now."

Pete rolls his eyes, but stands up anyways. He walks away, heading to his favorite teacher's room. "Hi, Ms. Davidson."

"Pete," the curly haired brunette winks at him. "How are you?"

"Bored. Mrs. Tyndale won't let anyone talk to me, cuz they might hurt my feelings," he scoffs.

"Why don't you go sit down in the chair over there? We're going to have snack in just a couple of minutes," the kindergarten teacher smiles.

Pete grins. Ms. Davidson was his favorite teacher. She _never_ called him Petey, and she was really pretty. She always had enough time for him, even though he wasn't the smartest, or the stupidest, in her class. He wasn't even in her class anymore, and she still remembered him.

Ms. Davidson claps her hands, gaining the antsy five-year-olds' attention. "Snack time. Emmy, will you go with Jared and count out the milks?"

A little girl stands up, overjoyed that she was trusted enough to get the milks. "Seventeen, right, Miz D?"

"That's right. C'mon, Jared," the teacher puts a hand on a blond-haired boy's shoulder. "Go with Emmy. Everybody else has to sit down. Since Sunday was Holly's birthday, she brought treats today. Holly, you get to pass those out now."

Pete stands up, planning to get himself a milk as well just as the phone rings.

"Pete, stay here, please," Ms. Davidson calls out, the phone to her ear. "Yes, he's here. Mrs. Tyndale, I'm sure he's fine. Yes, I'll make sure he gets on the right bus. Goodbye, Mrs. Tyndale."

"I was just going to get a carton of milk."

"That's fine. Can you make sure that Jared and Emmy counted right?" she asks.

Pete laughs. "Sure, Ms. D." He walks to the oversized cooler, where the two kindergartners were attempting to get enough milk for their class.

"Emmy, Jared, do you guys need help?" he asks.

Jared nods, but Emmy disagrees. "We got it."

Pete smiles. "I'm sure you do, Emmy, but Ms. D said to help. So, that's what I'm gonna do, 'kay?"

"Fine," Emmy relents. "But, we get to count."

"Okay," he holds out his hand to Jared for a high five.

Beaming, the little boy returns the gesture.

Pete turns to Emmy, a smile on his face.

Reluctantly, she gives him a high five. He winks at her, and she giggles.

Proud of his work, Pete turns to the cooler. He grabs a milk crate and sets it on the floor. "Ms. D said to count quickly."

"We're hurrying, we're hurrying," Emmy rolls her eyes, counting aloud.

Once they completed their task, the trio hurries back to the classroom.

"Pete, I'm sorry," Ms. D. says as he enters the room, "but the office wants to see you. Take a cookie with you, Holly wants you to."

The little black haired girl smiles and waves at him.

Pete grins, and waves back, taking a bite of the cookie. Trying not to choke on the hard, almost flavorless cookie, he coughs.

"Smile," Ms. D. says. "She thinks they taste good."

Pete nods, swallowing. "Bye, Ms. Davidson."

Pete walks to the office, wondering what was wrong. Nothing worse could happen, he thought to himself.

"Hello, Mr. Lattimer," an African-American woman greets him. "My name is Mrs. Fredric."

"Hi," he says, waiting a moment to see if an unsettling vibe was in the pit of his stomach. When nothing happens, he studies the woman.

"Do I pass inspection?" she asks.

He nods.

"Pete," she crosses her arms that were clad in her business-like suit. "Your father died for our country."

"I know that," Pete crosses his arms, mirroring her expression.

Mrs. Fredric hides a smile, and stands up. "I hope you'll follow in his footsteps someday. I have a job in mind for you."

"I'm twelve years old! What could you have 'in mind for me?'" the boy glares up at her.

"It's classified," she reaches a hand up to her dark hair.

"Tell me," Pete sets his jaw.

"I need your written permission," she keeps eye contact. "Then, sometime in the future, I'll find you."

"Seriously?"

She blinks, surprised by his gumption. "Yes."

"Fine. Where do I sign?" he asks.

"You must realize, Pete Lattimer, that this isn't something you'll be able to get out of," Mrs. Fredric tells him.

"I get it. I'll sign it, now," he stretches out his hand for the paper.

The woman hands him a paper and a pen.

Pete signs his name in a messy cursive scrawl.

"What did I sign up for?" he asks.

Mrs. Fredric smiles softly. "You'll find out in about 15 years."

"What? I'll be, like, 25 years old!"

She ignores him, and opens a purple bag. Looking away from him, she dumps the contents into his hand.

The last thing Pete remembers from the odd encounter was being weirded out from the floating white rock in his hand.

"Pete?"' Ms. Davidson puts a hand on his shoulder. "Pete, hon, are you okay?"

"Ms. D?" he asks, looking up at her. He was sitting on a bench outside the office. He couldn't remember how he got there. No one was around.

"Pete, what's wrong?"

"I don't remember walking down here," he mutters, standing. "It's okay. I probably just wasn't paying attention."

"Okay. Pete, it's almost time to go. Your mom called Mrs. Tyndale. You can go home early. She'll be here in ten minutes. Are you going to be okay here?" Ms. Davidson asks.

"Fine," Pete nods. "Thanks, Ms. D."

He smiles, and sits back on the bench.

"Petey, baby," Jane Lattimer enters the school. "They found out what happened to Daddy. He's at the funeral home now."

"Okay. Is it tonight?" he asks, referring to his father's funeral.

"It's Thursday," she answers, taking his hand in hers.

Pete nods, following his mother's lead. When they arrived at the funeral home, Pete looked around.

A tall man, whom Pete recognized from the fire hall, comes towards his mother. "Jane," the man says, "how are you holding up?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Jim."

Pete glares up at the firefighter. The man notices, and kneels down. "Hey, little man. Petey, right?"

"My name is Pete," he spits out between clenched teeth. "Pete Lattimer."

"Yup," he smiles at the boy. "Your dad was a good man."

"I know," Pete answers.

"He wanted you to have this," Jim gives him his dad's badge.

Fingering the badge in his hands, Pete looks up at him. "Thanks."

Jim smiles and stands. He places a hand on Jane's stomach. "How's the baby?"

"Oh," Jane says shyly. "My baby's fine. I have a feeling that she's gonna miss her daddy."

_De-nied_, Pete thought, smiling to himself.

Wiping the merriment from his face, he grabbed his mother's hand and tugged her inside the building. This was the worst week of his life.

* * *

AN: **EDITED 08/30/2011. I changed Pete's mother's name to Jane, after her introduction to the show.**


	3. Chapter 3: Myka

**AN: For the purposes of this story, Myka was born in 1978. Pete in 1974. **

**Eight years have passed. The year is 1994. **

* * *

"This is the _worst_ week of my life!" Myka yells, slamming her door shut to drown out Warren Bering's shouts.

She was sixteen now, and her father couldn't control her life. She wanted to get out of this dusty little store, and live like a real teen.

The cutest boy at her school, Nigel Martin, had asked her out. Her! The geek of Colorado Springs High. Not of her own choosing, of course. She had her father to thank for that.

And, she was grounded. Because she said yes to Nigel, without asking her parents. Mainly, her father.

Lying down on her bed, she opened her book. It was a journal, that came to 'Bering and Sons Bookstore' in her father's latest shipment of antique books.

She'd never met Arthur, but her mother said that he loved history. To Myka, that made him an okay person.

She opened the book, running her fingers over the faded writing. The woman who wrote it never signed her name. Instead, she wrote 'F' in a curly doodle.

The entries of the journals were unbelievable. They told of gathering different items that held magical powers, which the mysterious author called Artifacts.

Myka scoffed at the idea, but found herself entranced by the stories. Once upon time, she was even imagining herself in "F's" place.

However, according to her father, that would never happen. She'd be stuck in her father's business the rest of her life. She wasn't even a son. Apparently, 'Bering and Daughter' wouldn't have sounded good.

She rolls her eyes, closing the book. She was angry, and she never enjoyed the book when she was mad. It made her think of everything she could have if only Warren Bering wasn't her father.

Myka screeched angrily. There was nothing she could do about it. "I'm going to town," she whispers to her mother.

Jean looks at her daughter, worried. "Myka, honey. Your dad didn't mean it. I'm sure, once we meet this boy, he will be perfectly respectable."

"Mom. I'm going to town. Mark's at the studio, and I need to blow off some steam," the girl answers.

"Honey, martial arts aren't the answer to everything."

"I know that. But, at the moment, I don't have any other way to cope with Dad," Myka growls. "I'm never going to be good enough for him, am I, Mom?"

"Myka, you know that's not true. Your father loves you."

"Mom, I'm not a baby anymore. No matter how much money Dad makes off fairy tales, our life definitely isn't one. Stop trying to tell me that it is."

Myka slams the door as she headed to her mother's old car. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen, but it had wheels and it was pretty good on gas. With her father being the way he was, Myka would take what she could get.

She heads towards the Double M, as she called the studio. Mark's Martial Arts was the true name. She befriended Mark's son, who was about ten months younger than her, over the summer when she was ten. Since then, she hung out at the Double M whenever her father was being over-bearing, pardon the pun.

"Myka," Mark waves as he instructs his youngest son, age nine, how to perform a sweep kick. "What's up?"

"Finish practice with Mattie, and then we'll talk," Myka smiles, waving at the man's beach-blond boy.

He grins, and attempts to take down his father. As he fails, Mark picks up his son and spins him around.

Myka laughs, heading towards the girl's bathroom. She always left a bag in her car with her work-out clothes. She never knew when her father was going to blow up in her face.

She headed over to one of the hanging punching bags, grabbed a pair of gloves from a nearby chair and started working out her frustrations on it.

"What did Warren do today?" her friend, Monty, asks. He was the eldest of Mark's sons, and was her first friend at the studio. He was actually the reason she even discovered the Double M.

"I don't want to talk about it," Myka mutters, hitting the bag with more frequent punches.

"Coward."

She stops and swings towards him, her curly hair already escaping the ponytail she had put it in. "What did you call me, short-stuff?"

Monty rolls his eyes. "I'm taller than you, Miss Smarty Pants."

His friend smiles, but turns back to the punching bag.

"I'm going to get it out of you eventually," the almost-sixteen year old says.

"Monty, I'm still mad. Give me an hour, and then we _might_ talk."

The senior high student shakes his head, not intimidated by the seething sophomore. "I have an idea. You, me, fight. Now. If you win, we talk about it if or when you want. If I win, we talk now."

"Now?" she asks. "Monty. Not now. Later."

"You _are_ a coward!" he proclaims.

"I am not! Fine!" she crosses her arms. "Traditional?"

"Yeah. Dad's done on the mats with Mattie," Monty answers. "I'm gonna whip your sorry butt."

"Stop admiring my sorry butt, and get yours moving, Thompson," Myka sasses.

Monty shoves her lightly, redness spreading over his cheeks.

"Not until we're on the mat," she answers seriously.

For a moment there, Monty was actually scared. Myka would never hurt him on purpose, but she was mad. Like, so mad that she couldn't see straight.

_Of course_, Monty thought to himself, _I could always use that to my advantage._

He braced himself as Myka came at him. His father always taught him to up his defense when his opponent was angry.

As she flew towards him, in perfect form of course, he stopped thinking about the girl constantly on his mind and started thinking about how he'd take her down.

Myka's eyes moved rapidly, showing him that she was contemplating possible targets. She lunged towards him.

Anticipating the fact that he was about to be run over, he side-stepped and let her tumble past him. Once she gained her footing, she charged at him again.

Monty smiles. Had she learned nothing? Blocking and barely moving is easier than playing offense.

As his friend comes towards him once again, he sticks out his arm. He grabs her left arm, the one furthest from him, and tugs her around.

Myka doesn't jolt to a stop like he expected, instead using his momentum to merely change directions. She stops moving. Standing, she sizes him up, breathing heavily.

"C'mon, Myka. I've been doing this longer than you," Monty points out.

She says nothing, her chest heaving in her green tank top. Gritting her teeth, she steps forward once again.

Hands up by his face, he stuck out a foot, and latched it around Myka's. "Gotcha," he whispers as she trips, falling to the ground.

He grabs her arms just before she hits the mats, holding her an inch above the floor.

"You win," she mutters. "Let go; I'm lying down. If I stand up, I'm going to punch something."

"As long as it's not me," Monty laughs, moving away from her as he sat Indian-style on the mat, "that's okay."

Myka smiles. "Nigel asked me on a date."

Monty chokes on his breath. "Nigel… Martin?"

"Mm-hmm. Unbelievable, huh?" she grins. "Who'd have thought?"

"Yeah," Monty mutters. Who'd have thought that anyone would ask her out before he could himself? _Dang,_ Monty thought.

"Thanks for that self-confidence boost," she mutters, elbowing him in the side. "Anyways, my father threw a fit because I didn't ask him first. Stupid. I shouldn't have to ask him… it's stupid!"

"Myka," he says. "I need to tell you something."

Bracing herself on her elbows, she looks up at him. "What?"

"I… um… I…"

The curly haired brunette rolls her eyes. "Spit it out already!"

"I like you."

There, he said it. There was no taking it back now.

Myka stares at him, and laughs in his face. "Monty, I know that. But, Nigel _likes_ me. There's a big difference."

"Myka," he grabs her hand and interlaces their fingers. "I know the difference, and we passed that last year. I _like-_like you. Don't you get it?"

Boldly, he leans down towards her. He brushes his lips against hers.

"Didn't that prove it?" Monty smirks. Personally, he thought the use of '_like-_like' was a little childish, but it worked for him.

Myka pushes him away and sits up. "I need to go punch something again."

The boy laughs, and stands. Reaching down, he pulls his crush from the floor. "Come on. My mom made dinner. You're welcome to come. Maria wants to see you."

"I've never asked, but what is it with your parents and names that start with the letter 'M?'" she asks, following him next door.

"I don't know. I mean, my mom is Marcy, my dad is Mark. I guess that they decided 'M's' were good."

"So, they ended up with Monty, Mandy, Mattie, and Maria?" Myka asks.

"Yeah," Monty grins. "It's a family thing."

"I guess," she laughs.

As the pair enters the house, Marcy greets Myka. "How are you today, Myka?"

"As okay as ever," the teen smiles. "Monty's offered to let me stay for dinner. Is that okay with you?"

"Of course it is. Have a seat."

Myka smiles, and follows Monty to the family room.

A little five-year-old comes rushing towards her. "Myka!" she shouts in glee.

"Hi, Maria," Myka picks up the little girl.

"You look pretty."

For the first time, Myka notices that she is still in her tank-top and sweats. The teenager laughs. "Sure."

"I like it. It's pretty," Maria says obstinately. "Tell her, Monty."

"It's pretty," he waggles his eyebrows sarcastically.

Myka rolls her eyes. "Monty doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Monty always thinks you look pretty," the little girl babbles. "Look what I found. It was at a 'tique store."

"She means antique," Monty smiles.

His littlest sister holds out her hand, a pendant hanging off a piece of yarn. It was a bead, unlike Myka had ever seen. Yet, it seemed familiar.

It had a bird etched inside the amber stone. A red bird.

"Is that a phoenix?" she asks, studying it.

Monty nods. "Yeah, I think so."

"Ah!" Myka exclaims, dropping the necklace. "It's hot!"

Monty's brow furrows, and he bends to pick up the pendant. "Myka's right. Maria, I'll buy you a new necklace. This one isn't safe."

"Alright," the little girl nods, excited at the promise of new jewelry.

Monty and Myka walk outside, through the Thompsons' backyard.

"Monty, can I have it? I've read a book about it," Myka mentions. In 'F's' journal, there was something written about a firefighter saving someone's life after a similar pendant lit on fire.

"Uh, sure," he hands her the necklace carefully. "Must've been a good book."

"It was," she smiles. "I'd love to stay for dinner, but I think I should head home."

"Okay. Um, Myka?" he questions, puzzled by her sudden want to return home.

"Yeah?" she asks as he walks her towards her car.

"Is everything going to be weird?" Monty asks.

"No," the curly-haired teenager shakes her head. "We'll just forget it ever happened. How 'bout that?"

"Uh. Sure, if you want," the blonde boy nods.

Myka leans over and kisses her friend's cheek softly. "I'll always love you, Monty. Just…"

"Not like that," he finishes slowly.

"I'm sorry," she says, getting into her car. "Goodbye, Monty."

"Bye. See you at school tomorrow."

As she drives home, Myka thinks about the pendant in her pocket. It seemed familiar.

Pulling into her driveway, she parks the car and heads upstairs. She sits down and opens the journal.

"F, what's happening?" she whispers to the book. She flips it open and opens it to an entry eight years ago. She began muttering as she read the words.

_Artifact: Pendant, Fire of the Phoenix _

_Not acquired. _

_Location: Washington, D.C._

_Summary of Events: Lattimer, D.C. Fire Squad, entered the fire-ridden building at 10 a.m. Located girl, age 8, and her mother. Mother was in possession of Artifact. Building exploded, as result of mother's prolonged exposure to pendant. Lattimer died, child survived. Girl will later become agent, as planned in Part 3 of the Future of the Warehouse Presentation by A. Partner, as suggested, is the son of Lattimer, Pete. Girl's memory was erased, and she was moved to Colorado with former agents, W.B. and J.B._

W.B. and J.B. Those were her parents' initials.

Myka inhales quickly and pulls out the necklace. It swings like a pendulum. Entranced by its movements, a memory comes to Myka…

(Flashback)

_"My mommy was the fire. She got this really pretty necklace, with a birdie on it. She called it a phoenix." _

(End Flashback)

That was her. As a child. And, she somehow, she knew. She knew that she was the little girl. She had to find F. Or A, whoever that was. Perhaps her parents, if they were really even related to her, would know.

She comes running down the stairs. "Mom!"

Jean turns to her daughter. "What dear?"

"I was wondering…" Myka trails off. She would sound like she was crazy, nuts, bonkers… there had to be a logical way to figure this out. "I was wondering about the guy who sends Dad all the antique books. His name is Arthur. He sounds interesting. We're supposed to interview someone, non-related, for our history class. It's due in a month or so. Can I write to him?"

The lie came effortlessly and it gave her a thrill. It was like she was undercover.

"Of course. The newest box is right over there," Jean pointed, turning back to the stove. "Dinner will be ready in a minute."

"I'm not hungry," Myka says, kneeling next to the cardboard box. "There's no return address."

"Is that so?" her mother asks. "Go get my address book. I'm sure Artie's in there, just in case."

"Artie?" the teen raises an eyebrow.

"That's what we used to call him," Jean Bering confides. "We met him, when we were in South Dakota."

"Did you live there?" Myka asks as she opens her mother's address book.

"Oh yes. We used to work with him," Jean says, stirring the tomato sauce on the stove. "We quit and moved here when I learned I was pregnant."

"Oh," her daughter answers. "Arthur Nielson?"

"Yes, dear. That's him. I think that he'd be delighted to talk to you. You can go upstairs and pen him a letter if you'd like, instead of staying down here for dinner."

"Yeah. Thanks Mom."

Myka walks up the stairs slowly. She grabs a blank piece of paper, writing her letter to Artie.

The next morning, it's sitting in the mailbox. Myka closes the box and walks to her car, heading to school.

Arthur 'Artie' Nielson sits at the B&B, owned by a local family. The mail sent to the Warehouse sits in front of him on the table. He sips his coffee, and reaches for the first letter.

It was addressed to him personally. There was no name, merely an address from Colorado Springs. He opens the envelope, unfolding the paper inside.

_Dear Mr. Nielson,_

_You do not know who I am, I would assume, but I am the daughter of one of your friends, Warren Bering. I recently read a diary from your latest shipment of antique books to my father's store. It was written by a woman who referred to herself as 'F.' _

_In one entry, F wrote about a pendant, called the Fire of the Phoenix. I have found this pendant. _

_It's not the first time I've seen such a piece of jewelry. It has come to my attention that I am the girl in F's entry; my true mother was the woman in possession of this Artifact. _

_I need to find F. I need to find out about my true identity. Please, help me. _

_ Myka Bering_

Artie spits out the latest sip he took of his coffee. Reaching into his pocket, he slams the mug down when he is unable to find what he was looking for.

"Where is it? My Farnsworth," he mutters, looking next to him in a briefcase. "Ah, there it is."

He presses the red button. "Mrs. Fredric."

"Yes, Arthur?"

"We have a problem, with Myka Bering."

* * *

**Review please!**


	4. Chapter 4: Pete

**AN: For the purposes of this story, Myka was born in 1978. Pete in 1974. The year is 1986.**

* * *

"Petey, please," his mother reaches for his arm. "Jim wants you to do this. So, you are going to do it."

"Mom, my name is Pete. Jim is _not_ my father. Lastly, I am over eighteen. I don't have to do anything," the tall, dark-haired boy looks her straight in the eye.

Jane Lattimer-Barnes stares at her eldest son. "Pete Owen Lattimer. How dare you!"

"Mother," he kisses her cheek, "calm down."

"Do not tell me to calm down," she swats his arm. "Jim adopted you. He may as well be your father."

"He is NOT my father. He will NEVER be my father, no matter what you do to convince me he is," Pete answers. "I'm twenty, a legal adult."

"Well, you are still in school! Petey… Pete, you have to listen to me," his mother says, practically stomping her foot.

"You look like Amy," Pete says, "when she was throwing tantrums in the terrible twos. Now, I'm going to school, to _college_. I'll be back this afternoon. Have a good day Mom."

"Pete! You cannot just leave like this!"

He barely hears her as he heads out of the penthouse apartment that Jim had bought. Everything he had of his father in their house, their old house, their _real_ house, was gone.

Jim Barnes, the firefighter, had married his mother a month after the funeral. Pete had thought it was wrong, after all, his father had only been gone a month.

The vibe Pete got whenever he was near Jim was unnerving to say the least. He did not like the man. Of course, the twenty year old just ruled it out as not liking the man who took his father's place in Jane Lattimer's life.

Pete's little sister, Amy, had never known her father. She actually thought that Jim was her father. Pete had tried to tell her, but Jim had interrupted the last time, decreeing that he _was_ Amy's father. "Not by blood, mind you," he said, "but I love her. I can be your father too, Petey."

Jim had quit working at the fire hall. He'd moved on to being a businessman for a large government-funded company. Recently, he had been returning to the penthouse later and later. Pete suspected that Jim's newest secretary was entertaining him quite often.

He'd told his mother and gotten grounded for a week. Not that he followed it. He was twenty, he should be living it up in college, enjoying dorm life. But, he wasn't. If his mother didn't insist on him still living in Jim's house, he'd have been long gone.

The school day was boring. Easy, but boring. It was a repeat of high school all over again. Freshman year was fun, but by sophomore year, he kind of just fell into the routine.

"Mr. Lattimer?" an African-American woman raps her knuckles against his desk. "Follow me."

Wide-eyed, Pete stands and follows her from his _Classic Literature_ class. The teacher says nothing. In fact, everything in the room was bizarrely quiet.

He looks at his peers. They were frozen in various states of attention. No one was moving. It didn't even look like anyone was breathing.

"Wait!" he exclaims, looking at his teacher, a nutty professor named Mr. Stewart. "What did you do to them?"

"Their lives will restart momentarily. It is merely a precaution. As far as they know, you asked to be excused and then skipped school the rest of the day."

"Okay, I've skipped before, but I actually like this class," Pete answers honestly. "It's a breeze and the teacher is…something else."

"Indeed. Stewart is one of our best agents," the woman says.

"Agents? You're kidding. This guy is a nutcase. A loveable nutcase, like an ugly dog that you love regardless the fact that it's so unpleasing to the eye, but a nutcase all the same."

"Interesting analogy, Mr. Lattimer." She leads him to an awaiting car, a black sports car.

"Thanks. So, we're going incognito, huh?"

The woman does not reply.

Pete sits down, trusting this woman. There was no bad vibe coming from her, so he figured that he was good. She almost seemed familiar.

"Pete, this is earlier than we would have liked, but we need your help."

"Who is we, exactly?"

"That would be classified. Mr. Lattimer, you agreed to this," the woman says.

"Funny. Thing is, I don't remember that."

She sighs. "My name is Mrs. Fredric. I work for… the American Government, but… let's call it an off-branch. You, Pete Lattimer, signed an agreement to work for me."

"Mrs. Fredric, with all due respect, you're crazy. I never agreed to this," Pete nods convincingly.

Mrs. Fredric rolls her eyes and hands him a piece of paper.

"What is…"

"Just open it. We don't have much time." Her eyes narrow.

He unfolds the paper. In a messy scrawl was his name. "This isn't mine. It looks like a ten-year-old wrote it."

Pete wasn't exactly what you would call a model student. His former high school principal knew his name well, and exactly how to spell it. He was often disciplined for not paying attention in class or goofing around. He was only trying to make his friends laugh. He had started that type of behavior right after Jim married his mother. Young Pete had a lot to be sad about, so he had decided to make his friends happy instead. The behavior kind of just stuck with him after grade school. He was one of the most popular underclassmen on campus now that he was in college.

"Actually, it was an twelve-year-old," Mrs. Fredric answers matter-of-factly. "You, Pete Lattimer, signed this when you were twelve years old."

"I don't remember."

"I know. I made sure of that."

Pete's brow wrinkles, marring his good looks. "Okay, even if what you're saying is true, why did you ask a twelve-year-old to sign for a job?"

"Curse those stupid rocks," she mutters under her breath. Digging through a large brown briefcase, she pulls out a purple envelope. "Read this aloud. It cancels the effect of any Artifact."

"Uh, okay?" Pete says, taking the old scroll. "Um… Veneficium dissuo. Admissium apud me oculis a agnosco me deduco…." Pausing, he asks, "What is this?"

"Latin. Now, do you remember our first meeting?"

"No," he mutters.

"Mr. Lattimer," she looks at his rolling eyes. "Focus."

"I am," he mutters. He looks back down at the parchment. The ink turns purple. "Whoa!"

Mrs. Fredric merely smiles.

"Wait," he closes his eyes, a memory washing over him. "It was the day after my dad died. I got called to the office, and you offered me a job. To protect our nation."

The woman nods.

Pete looks at her. "And, now, you want me to start?"

"Not officially. We need help with your future partner. She's inColorado. She's discovered the Warehouse."

"Wait, the Warehouse? I need some information before I run headlong into this." The words surprised Pete, and he was the one saying them.

"I cannot do that."

"What?" Pete asks. "Why not?"

"It's classified."

"That's what you said last time."

Mrs. Fredric smiles. "We're here."

"That's not possible. We just left D.C."

"And it's not possible that I erased your memory, and brought it back again eight years later," she returns. "Never say something is not possible, not until you know for sure. Remember that."

Pete nods, sure that it would be important later in his career. "So, we're inColorado?"

" Springs," Mrs. Fredric nods. She opens the door before her driver could get there.

Pete follows the woman as she exits the car. He looks around at the street lined with shops. "Where's her house?"

"Right here." Mrs. Fredric points to a book store. "Her father is the owner."

"Bering and Sons… how many brothers does she have?"

"None. Warren, her father, is a bit presumptuous."

"What's her name?" Pete asks.

"Myka. Myka Bering," the woman answers.

Pete looks sidelong at her. "Is that her?" he points to a teenage girl shelving books.

"Yes, it her come home and work during her lunch break."

"Oh." Pete studies the girl, taking in her profile. She had curly hair that was brown, bordering on auburn. It was pretty, he thought, as it shone in the sunlight.

"Stay here," Mrs. Fredric instructs. "I'm giving you this on a temporary basis. Touch the button below the red light when it rings."

"It's a phone?"

"Somewhat," she answers and walks into the store.

Pete watches as she talks with Myka. A look of disbelief appears on the teenager's face, and she glances out to look at Pete.

He waves, and the girl rolls her eyes. Mrs. Fredric starts to say something, but the girl shakes her head. Myka walks to the door, and holds it open.

"Get out. This isn't funny. If you aren't going to tell me anything, I'll have to find it out on my own," the teenager answers.

Mrs. Fredric says nothing and walks out of _Bering & Sons Bookstore_ towards Pete.

"Problems?" He raises an eyebrow cockily.

He receives no reply.

Pete hurries to keep up with Mrs. Fredric's purposeful strides away from the bookstore.

"What's going on? Why are we leaving?"

"She doesn't believe us. She wants to see Arthur. She even calls him Artie. I should have known never to trust Jean with her memories of the Warehouse. Her mind is just too fragile, too easy to manipulate," Mrs. Fredric mumbles.

"Uh, hello?"

The African-American woman turns to look at him, a light coming to her eyes as an idea pops into her mind. "Pete Lattimer, follow me. You will be enrolling in Colorado Springs High today."

"What?" Pete stops walking and sits on the curb. "This isn't happening. I'm twenty, in college. I am not supposed to be getting a job with our government."

"It is happening, Mr. Lattimer, and I suggest you get a hold of yourself. Now, you are to befriend Ms. Bering and get her to trust me. Then, we can take her to see Artie if necessary, and if not, we will erase her memory once again," Mrs. Fredric plans.

Pete nods. "Okay."

She smiles, taking the gold phone-like box from his hand. She pressed a button, and a man with messy black hair comes on the screen.

"Did you find her?" he asks.

"Yes. Arthur, meet Pete Lattimer," she turns the device towards Pete.

Pete nods, eyes wide as he took in the Artifact.

Artie greets Pete then says, "Where is Bering?"

"She needs convincing. I need Mr. Lattimer enrolled in the local high school, no questions asked."

"Okay?" Artie says, furiously typing on typewriter-like keyboard. "Done. Pete Lattimer, welcome to the Regents."

"The Regents?"

"Whoops," Arthur shrugs at Mrs. Fredric and turns off the communication device.

Pete stares at the dark screen. "What was that thing?"

"It's called a Farnsworth. It's not important."

The next thing Pete knew, he was being handed a schedule.

"So," the principal smiles at him, "welcome toColorado Springs. I'll have one of our best students show you around." The man turns to his secretary. "Call Myka, would you?"

The secretary nods, and presses the intercom button, asking for Myka Bering.

The teenager comes to the office. "Yes?"

"Mr. Johnston wants to see you," the secretary points to the principal's office.

"Alright." Myka shakes her head, curls bouncing.

"Myka, I need a favor."

"What is it, Mr. Johnston?"

The man smiles. "Pete Lattimer is a new student here. His schedule has been made to match yours. If you would, show him around."

Her eyes flash angrily before she puts on a tight smile. "Of course. Follow me, Mr. Lattimer."

Pete grins and follows the younger girl. "So," he catches up with her, switching his books to the opposite arm, "I'm Pete. And, you are?"

"You know who I am. Tell Mrs. Fredric to stop meddling in my life," Myka answers. "Algebra II is after lunch. Hurry up."

As the girl struts away, Pete stares. Jogging a bit, he asks, "Do you always walk this fast?"

"Yes."

She didn't even look at him, Pete muses. He waves to one of the girls checking him out, and heads after Myka.

She stops, and he runs into her.

"What the heck?" she asks, turning back to glare at him.

"Sorry. Where's class?"

She goes back to ignoring him. He follows her gaze to a tall, black-haired boy with bright green eyes.

Pete laughs. "So, little Myka Bering has a crush."

She snorts, and spins around. "You know nothing about me. I don't care what she told you, but I'm a normal person. A normal person who wants _you_ out of her life!"

"Whoa, calm down, sweetheart," Pete drawls.

She pokes him in the chest. "Never call me sweetheart. I don't like you, got it? Not at all."

"Got it," he smirks at her. Girls usually fell all over him when he played the bad boy.

"Wipe that smirk off your face. How old are you anyways? I'm sixteen, almost seventeen. You have to be at least two years older," she says, studying his features. "You're tall for a senior. Not to mention, you're in a lot of younger classes. You're not stupid, are you?"

Pete steps back at the anger on her face. "Umm. I'm older than you. Graduated my old school a year and a half ago."

"You're twenty?" she raises an eyebrow at him.

"Yep. But, as far as everyone here knows, I turned eighteen earlier this year."

Myka rolls her eyes and walks past him into Room 114. "Ms. Stevenson? This is Pete Lattimer, a new 't have his transcripts yet, so he's following me around."

"Of course." The older woman turns to the boy Myka was looking at in the hall. "Nigel, please move to Maggie's seat for the day. She's home sick with the flu. Mr. Lattimer will be sitting by Myka for the rest of the week."

"At least." Pete smiles, sitting behind Myka. "Uh, sorry."

The teenager turns around. "For what?"

"Making your crush move."

"For the record," she hisses as Ms. Stevenson writes a problem on the board, "he asked me out. That makes him more than a crush."

"Whoa, pardon me," Pete says sarcastically.

"Shut up." She stares at the chalk board, pretending to be enthralled in the _extremely_ interesting lecture.

Pete laughs, grabbing a pencil and opening his notebook, pretending to take notes. "Psst." He tugs on one of Myka's curls.

She stirs but doesn't say anything.

Pete smirks and stretches out his legs, softly kicking the backs of her shins.

She kicks him back, grinning when he gasps in surprise.

"Myka, psst," he whispers again.

"What?" she growls.

"I have a question."

"Shh." Ms. Stevenson looks at the pair. "Now, Myka, you and Pete will be partners. Everyone else may _choose_ their partners."

Myka clenches her teeth and turns around to face Pete. "Are you happy?"

"Extremely," he grins.

"I shall never understand boys," she mutters. "Were you even listening at all?"

"No."

Myka growls. "Open your book at least, so we can _look_ like we're working."

"Oh, a rebel?" he smirks at her.

"Actually, I worked ahead."

"Never mind."

She grins triumphantly.

Pete scowls at her. This is going to be a long week.

* * *

AN: **EDITED 08/30/2011. I changed Pete's mother's name to Jane, after her introduction to the show.**


	5. Chapter 5: Myka

**_This update didn't come as soon as I would have liked it to. Look later this week for the next chapter._**

**_I do not own Warehouse 13. _**

Myka - 1994

_This is going to be a _very_ long week, _Myka thought to herself.

Curiosity gets the better of her, and she looks to Pete. "How did she get you in on this?"

"I signed up for it, when I was twelve. I don't think I really got it, but I thought it would be cool to serve my country, the same way my dad did."

"Oh. What does your dad do?"

"My dad was a firefighter. He died when I was twelve," Pete says monotonously.

"Sorry," Myka mutters.

He nods. "It's okay. If not for him, I'd never be here now."

Mrs. Stevenson walks by their desks, glaring at Pete.

Pete coughs, and says, "So, what do you think about problem fourteen?"

Myka comes up with an answer that seemed to satisfy her teacher, because Mrs. Stevenson walked away.

Pete smiles as Myka sighs in relief. "What about you?" he asks. "Why does Mrs. Fredric care about you so much?"

"I wrote a letter," Myka admits haltingly. "That apparently was breaching some American Government classification system. I don't know."

"Oh."

She smiles at his single syllable answer. "I found out something about my past. That I don't think I'm supposed to know."

That grabbed his interest, Myka could tell. He gave her his full attention, and stared at her with the dark chocolate eyes that seemed so deep.

"I am not talking to you about it. You work for _her._ It would be entirely pointless for me to tell you," she crosses her arms over the blue sweater that brought out her eyes.

Pete frowns, but agrees with her. "You're right I suppose."

"Of course I am," she nods, and looks back at her algebra book.

"Well," he comments as the bell rings twenty minutes later, "you succeeded at ignoring me the rest of the class. What's next?"

"Phy. Ed," she answers.

"Co-ed, I hope," he mutters to himself.

"Nope, actually not," Myka grins.

Pete rolls his eyes. "They seriously gave me a girls' P.E. class?"

"Please, Mrs. Fredric totally suggested it," Myka crosses her arms, heading towards the locker rooms. "The boys' locker room is there. Tell the coach your size, and he'll give you a uniform. Be in the gymnasium in five minutes, tops."

She turns away from him, heading into the girls' locker room.

"Myka," her friend, Deena, grabs her arm. "Who's the hottie you've been showing around?"

"His name is Pete, he's from D.C."

"Oh. Is he in this class?"

"Yes. Deena, I'm sure you can ask him out as soon as we get to the gym." Myka rolls her eyes, quickly changing into the mandatory black shorts and white tee-shirt.

Deena smiles at her, pulling her blond silky hair into a ponytail. "Well, let's go!"

Myka laughs, and follows her friend. "Don't be too nice. I don't like him."

"But, Mykaaaaa," Deena stretches out the teenager's name. "_I _like him."

"Of course you do."

The gym teacher blows a whistle, and all the girls line up in alphabetically order.

Once the teacher gets to Myka, the girl tells her about Pete. "Mr. Johnston is having him follow me around until his transcripts are transferred."

"Why isn't he in a boys' class?"

Myka shrugs, putting on a fake smile. How would she know? "I don't know. I was asking myself the same question."

The teacher nods, and goes on to the next girl. She stands, silently appraising Pete as he stood at the end of the line. Myka held back a laugh as the teacher sniffed indignantly and turned away.

"Volleyball today, girls. Partner up. Bering, with your shadow please," she orders.

Pete grins, waving at Myka. She groans, and grabs a volleyball. "Are you any good?" she asks.

"You'll find out, won't you?"

Myka sighs, bending down as she went under the net. Quickly, she serves, the ball sailing through the air towards Pete.

It smashes to the ground with a loud thud.

"That's a point for me," Myka yells. "My serve." Smirking, she repeats the move.

This time, however, Pete is ready. He wraps one hand around his fist, and returns the ball to Myka.

She smiles, hitting it back with as much force as she could muster. Pete's jaw drops, ducking as the ball flew towards his head.

"Hey!" he yells, grabbing the ball, rolling it under the net to her. "Watch it, Bering."

"Oh, it's on, _Lattimer_," she smirks again. "Two serving zero."

Pete lunges for the volleyball, hitting it over the net. Myka hit it back to him, and he jumped, spiking the ball to the gym floor.

"Point!" he yelled with a grin.

"Nope. Now, it's just your serve."

Pete shook his head angrily, his hands up for the ball.

Myka smiles sarcastically, throwing the volleyball. It hits his hands hard, the slapping noise echoing through the gymnasium.

Pete serves, and thus begins the most competitive volleyball game Colorado Springs High had ever seen.

"Go, Myka!" Deena yells, clapping. The rest of the girls had gathered around Pete and Myka's court, abandoning their own volleying.

"Please, did you _see _him? He has, like, a foot and a half on her, and muscles," one of the girls simpers.

The girls sigh in appreciation simultaneously.

Myka hits the ball, sending it soaring over Pete's head. It bounced and rolled to a stop against the bleachers.

"Point," she yells. "Game point."

"Come on! That was _so_ out," Pete shouts, bending down to get the ball.

"No way!" Deena chimes in, sticking up for her friend, even though Myka knew that the ball was out.

Pete's admiring posse begins to argue with her. "It was totally out," Elizabeth, the girl who had spoken against Myka earlier, disagrees.

The whistle blows over the chaos, and the girls' voices stop immediately, turning to the gym teacher. "Quiet!" The teacher glares at the girls, and they disperse back to their respective courts.

"It was out," Deena says quietly, sending a smile to Pete as she walked away.

Myka glares at her friend. Sure, she _knew_ it was out, but it was the principle of the thing.

"Ha!" Pete bows to his fans quickly, and turns back to Myka. "Now, we're tied twenty-four to twenty-four."

Myka rolls her eyes. "Serve."

Pete laughs, and serves the volleyball. Myka volleys it back to him, and the game continues.

She sends it over the net, arcing nicely towards the floor. She glances at the teacher, who was observing the game.

The next thing she felt was the volleyball slamming into her face.

"Pete!" she shrieks, clutching her nose.

"I'm sorry." He ducks under the net, jogging next to Myka.

Pete pulls at her hands, surprised when they come away stained with blood. He steers her back to the locker room, smiling apologetically at the teacher, who looked like she wanted nothing more than to expel him.

Pete looks around for something for her to stop the blood gushing from her nose. Not able to find anything, he pulls the shirt over his head, shoving it at Myka. "Here." He pushes on her shoulders, making her sit on the bench.

"I can't believe you hit me," she mutters, sniffling as she wiped at her nose.

"I said I was sorry."

"I wasn't finished," Myka says, her silver eyes twinkling in amusement at his repentant features. "And, then made me use your sweaty shirt."

Pete smiles. "I thought girls liked it when guys took of their shirts." He thinks this is a little odd, but he gives her a grin.

She giggles when he flexes his muscles at her. Myka rolls her eyes at her own actions. "Is that supposed to impress me?"

"Oh, touché," he teases. He sits next to her, their shoulders touching as she pinches the bridge of her nose. "I am sorry."

"I know, Pete," she answers, patting his arm softly.

That second, the teacher enters the locker room. She takes in the scene before her—a sweaty, shirtless Pete Lattimer sitting next to a red-faced Myka Bering, the girl with the highest GPA in her class.

"Go to the office, now!" the physical education teacher barks.

Myka stands, surprised. "What?"

"Bering, you're in the locker room, unsupervised, with a shirtless boy," the woman scolds.

Pete smiles lazily, and grabs Myka's arm. "We'll be at the office, ma'am." He pulls his companion along, ignoring the strange looks he got while walking half-naked down the hall with Myka Bering.

Myka was practically hyperventilating. "I cannot believe you got me kicked out of class. Out of _gym_ class!"

"Myka, calm down. It's not the end of the world. We just tell the office that it was a misunderstanding. We weren't doing anything, most certainly not the horizontal tango in the locker room."

"Eww," she makes a face, clutching his shirt to her nose.

"You okay? I mean, your nose? Is it still bleeding?" he asks.

"I don't think so, but I'll go see the nurse anyways."

Pete opens the office door, herding her to the receptionist's desk. "We had an accident in Phy. Ed. Can she go see the nurse?"

"Oh, we heard all about the 'accident,'" the woman says sarcastically. "Once she's done in the nurse's office, the principal will see you."

Myka groans. "If this ruins my record, I'm so going to kill you, no matter what Mrs. Fredric has to say about it."

Pete smiles, watching as she cautiously walks to the nurse's office.

Myka knocks on the door quietly. "Ms. Nuremburg?"

"Come in," the nurse answers. With a surprised look, she takes in Myka's injury. "What happened?"

Myka smiles sheepishly. "Volleyball accident. I got a bloody nose. I think I'm okay now, but I want to be sure it isn't broken." She lowers Pete's tee-shirt, now stained red with blood.

The nurse puts a hand under her chin, forcing her head up. "It's not broken. You'll be fine."

"Thank you," Myka answers, heading back to where Pete was lounging in a chair outside the principal's office. "If you get me expelled, Lattimer," she whispers to him, "I will _never_ forgive you."

Pete laughs, but even to him, it sounds fake.

"Sir," Myka says, talking as soon as she enters the room. "It was a misunderstanding really. Whatever the teacher told you, it's not true. I got hit with a volleyball and…"

"Myka," the principal raises his hand to stop the barrage of words. "You're not going to be expelled. Take a breath, and tell me what happened."

Myka still looks as though she was in shock.

Pete sighs, and looks at the man. "We were playing volleyball. I accidentally hit her. She got a bloody nose, so I took her to the girls' locker room. And, I couldn't find a towel, so I gave her my shirt. End of story."

The principal turns to Myka. "Is that what happened?"

Myka nods.

"Well, you're going to be out of school for the rest of the day."

"What! But, you said I wouldn't be in trouble!"

"Myka, you aren't in trouble. Someone called, your aunt. Your parents are going to be out of town, so you'll be staying with her."

Myka blanches. "What was this aunt's name?"

"She called herself Mrs. Fredric."

"Of course she did," Myka mutters, glaring at Pete. "Is Pete leaving too?"

"Actually," the man says, sounding surprised, "he is. The woman said she was his boss. And, since she was the only one listed on his transcripts, Mr. Lattimer can go too."

Myka stares at him, then turns around, heading back to the gym.

Still without a shirt, Pete follows her. "Where are you going? We're supposed to leave!"

"I need my clothes," she answers, slamming the locker room door in his face.

Pete rolls his eyes, and quickly changes into his street clothes. He returns to the girls' locker room, leaning against the wall.

Myka opens the door, clothed in her blue shirt and jeans. "So, where is Mrs. Fredric taking me? D.C.?"

"I don't know," Pete answers honestly.

Myka's eyes narrow, and she bites her lip. _Can I trust him?_ she asks herself.

Taking a leap of faith, she grabbed his arm, stopping him. "I need to tell you something. Promise me that you won't tell Mrs. Fredric."

Pete studies her. After an eternity, it seems, he nods.

She began to tell him of how she discovered her true identity, hoping that her trust wasn't misplaced in Pete Lattimer.


	6. Chapter 6: Pete

**AN: Sorry for any formatting errors. I'm using a different computer, and words tend to run together, even though I _know_ I put a space between them. Feel free to tell me where they are, and I'll fix them. If you're as lazy as me, just ignore 'em. Enjoy!**

**Pete-1994**

"And, that's how I found out that I'm _not_ Myka Bering of Colorado Springs."

Pete gazes at her. He didn't have a vibe, so he figured she was telling the truth. "Okay."

"That's it?" she asks, gawking at him.

He laughs. "Well, I figure if you trust _me_, even though I'm supposedly part of this huge plan, you're taking a big risk. I _am_ Pete Lattimer, if you didn't know."

Myka smacks his shoulder.

"Anyway, we don't know if this is true, or what. For now, you're the best I've got."

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes," he nods, seriousness coming back to his face. "So, do you have a plan?"

"I need to go toSouth Dakota."

"What?"

Myka smiles at his confusion. "I wrote a letter to a man named Arthur Nielson. He knows who I am… or at least, he knows who can help me. But, I think he's the one who sent you and Mrs. Fredric after me."

"So, you're asking me for backup?" Pete questions.

"Yes."

"I'm in," he shrugs. "Do you have a car?"

"I have a…vehicle. I wouldn't call it a car," Myka grimaces at the thought of her current mode of transportation.

"Don't you like it?" he asks.

"Wait 'till you see it," she laughs.

Pete shrugs, and says, "Okay."

She stops in front of an old black car.

"You don't like this? Hun, this is gonna be a _classic."_ He smirks at her, pulling the keys from her hands. "I'm driving."

"Puh-leeze. It's one of the ugliest things I've ever seen."

Pete laughs. "It's a 1984 Corvette."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Get out of the store, bookworm," Pete teases.

Myka rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. "Let's go."

"Now?"

"Yes. I have to stop at home. I'm sure that Mrs. Fredric is watching the place. Would you go, distract her?"

"Is it that important?"

"Do you have any other ideas? We need money. It's not exactly like my car has enough gas to get from here toSouth Dakota."

"I do," he reaches in his pocket pulling out the card Mrs. Fredric had given him.

"A credit card?"

"Being a government agent has its perks."

"I'd say," Myka grabs it, studying the plastic card. "Interesting."

"Yeah. So, let's go?"

"Let's go. But, I still need to stop somewhere first," Myka tells him, making him take a left.

"Where are we going?" Pete asks.

"I have to stop and see someone. It's important, Pete," Myka assures him. "Just, park here. I'll be back in ten minutes."

He nods, looking up at the 'H' posted on the blue sign in front of the building. Myka was entering the hospital.

She slips inside, and Pete drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He checks his watch. Ten seconds since she left. He kills the engine and runs after her.

"Uh," he looks around, heading to the front desk. "I'm looking for a person. Her last name is Bering. She just came in here. Where can I find her?"

"I'm sorry," the man tells him, "but we can't give out information about our patients or their families."

"Listen, bucko, this is important," Pete wishes he had a badge to flash. Instead, he chooses to lie. "I'm… well, she's my girlfriend. I parked, and she took off crying. I really need to know where Myka is."

"Third floor, room 304," the man says tiredly.

Pete gives him a nod of thanks and heads to the elevator.

Making his way to room 304, he knocks. "Hello?"

"Pete?" Myka whips around. "I told you to stay in the car."

"Who's this, little sis?" the young woman in the bed asks. "Your newest tutored jock? I'm sure he's not your boyfriend…"

"Is that really necessary?" Pete snaps.

"Hmm," the woman looks up at him. "Maybe he is."

"Tracy," Myka glares at the woman, "knock it off."

"What a way to talk to your older sister,"Tracyremarks. "She's so rude. Anyways, what's your name?"

Pete stares at her. "Sister?"

"Pete, meet Tracy, my evil sister."

Tracylaughs, and places a pale hand on his arm. "Please, I'm not the evil one. She's the pauper, and I'm the princess."

He looks at her, baffled.

"It's from a book, by Twain," Myka supplies. "Trace, I'm going to be gone for a while. If Mom and Dad are worried, well, tell them I'll be alright."

"What am I, your secretary?" the older girl asks. "Where are you going?"

"You're not my secretary; you don't need to know."

Tracygives a death glare to her younger sister.

"Girls, girls, break it up," Pete scolds, stepping between them. "Now, I may not know about any princesses or paupers, but I know that catfights are never a good idea whilst in a hospital."

Myka raises an eyebrow at him. "Whilst?" she mutters.

"I'm dying, Myka. What do you expect me to say? Have a good trip? Hope you're back before I expire? Huh, what?"

Myka bites her lip.

Tracygives a laugh. "Oh, you want a goodbye. Or, a promise…a promise that I won't kick the bucket while you're gone? Sis, I promise nothing."

"I'm leaving, Trace."

"Myka…"

"Tracy, I love you. Goodbye."

"No!" the older girl yells. "No. You can't act like I'm dying. This isn't some pity visit. You're just…" her voice turns shrill, "pretending. You're pretending!"Tracyholds onto the idea as if she were drowning. "You're pretending, like always Myka. Pretending that you could be something more than a fencing bookworm, pretending that you could be more than me! But you can't! I'm the best. I'm the oldest. I'm the prettiest. I was homecoming queen, you know. I'm what you have to live up to. Me!"

Myka gives an icy glare to the eldest Bering daughter. "I'm me, Trace. I'm not you. I'm not Mom; I'm not Dad. I'm me. I'm Myka."

"Little Myka, always in her sister's shadow," the oldest girl mocks, her voice sing-songing. "Little Myka Bering."

"Stop." Myka's voice was stern and sober.

"No! It's not about yoooooouuuuu!"Tracysings at the top of her lungs.

"Tracy!" Pete bellows. "Stop."

Tracystops in surprise and stares at him. She blinks, her face the picture of innocence. "But, Peter," her voice is sweet and smooth as silk, "I'm sick. Haven't you heard?"

He looks at her intently. "I've heard. But I don't think it makes you crazy, you just act that way."

Tracypushes back her black hair with a pale porcelain-like hand. "Oh, no, Peter. I'm certainly crazy. Why else would I be here? It's not a hospital. Level three is the mental sanitarium. Didn't the man at the desk tell you? It's because I've seen things,"Tracywhispers. "Mom and Dad think I don't remember, but I do. I was eleven when we leftSouth Dakota. They barely remember, but I do. They worked at this place. It was magical. There were objects that could do things. Mom called them artifacts. We left six months later. Then she came,"Tracytilts her head at Myka. "Stupid brat. Not even my sister. Little, eight year old vixen who was the precious angel to everyone, even Dad… I had to change that. I am changing that."

"What?" Myka questions.

Tracytilts her head at her (not)sister. "Ask Dad about it someday, if you want. You don't believe me though. You never will. You'll probably forget."

Visibly shaken, Myka leaves the room.

Pete stares atTracy. "What happened to you?"

"Punishment, for getting too close… the Warehouse does that,"Tracytells her. "I'm like Alexander the Great. He died because of the Warehouse. The first one. You don't get it, do you?"

"No."

"I know you work for her. Fredric. That cocky black woman. She always thought she was in charge. The Regents are in charge,"Tracysays. "I was young. But old enough to know…something was going wrong. She was sick…dying. There was a ribbon. A green ribbon. It was tied around our wrists. She died for a split second."

"You can't die for just a second."

"Nothing is impossible when it comes to the Warehouse,"Tracytells him. "This man…with black hair…he was always there. Artie, I think. He saved her. I don't remember how. But it hurt. It hurt me. I was supposed to be the Caretaker. She took that away from me. She took it back. It belonged to me!"Tracyyells. She grips the side of the bed as she falls into a violent seizure.

Pete turns.

"Wait!" Tracy rasps. "Help Myka. Don't let her end up like this. Like me."

Nurses come in, and Pete sneaks out during the chaos.

Myka was sitting outside on the curb.

"Hey," Pete coughs.

"Hi. You ready?"

Her words were clear-cut, unattached. She was done withTracy, and she wanted him to know that. Pete could tell.

"Yep. Let's hit the road."

Myka nods, and he swears that she wipes away a tear or two as she stands up. He doesn't say anything, just unlocks her 'vehicle.'

He'd be ready to talk when she was.

"So, where did you find the new phoenix bead?" Pete asks, about an hour into their drive.

"I didn't actually," Myka takes the pendant from her pocket, gazing at it. "My friend bought it for his little sister. She showed me, and I noticed that it was warm in my hand. My friend gave it to me, when I told him I'd seen it before."

"Don't you think it's just a fluke that it was written down and just happened to come into your hands?"

"F's diary, you mean?"

"Yeah," Pete nods.

Myka smiles. "Yeah, I guess. Really, the odds would make it practically impossible."

"Never say something isn't possible until you know for sure."

"Okay. Umm. Why?"

Pete looks at her, sitting next to him in the front seat. "Oh, just something Mrs. Fredric said earlier today."

"Ah. So, what about you? Why did you join Mrs. Fredric?"

"Like I said, I signed up for this when I was twelve."

"Why?"

Pete cocks his head. "What?"

With a smile, Myka answers, "Why did you choose to agree? You could've always said no, right?"

"I suppose."

"So, what prompted you to think this was the right decision?"

Pete rolls his eyes. "I was prompted to think this was the right decision by the death of my father."

"Oh."

"Yeah," he gives a hoarse laugh.

"Sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's a long story."

"It's a long drive," Myka counters.

"So it is."

"So," she smiles knowingly, "get on with it."

Pete sighs. "You're not going to give up, are you?"

"No."

"Alright. I was twelve. My dad was a firefighter in D.C. and he was the best. His squad said he went to save a kid in a burning building. There was a secondary explosion, and he was hit by shrapnel. The kid was taken out of the building, and never seen again."

"I'm sorry. You must've loved him."

"I did. My mom was pregnant with Amy, my little sister. My mother remarried about a month after my dad's death."

"What?"

Pete gives the teenager in the passenger seat a half-smile. "Yeah. Anyways, the day after he died, I got called to the office at my school. A woman was there, waiting for me."

"Mrs. Fredric."

He nods. "Mrs. Fredric. She told me I could serve this country the way my dad did. I signed a paper, and then that was that."

"That's it?" Myka asks, confused.

"Yeah." Pete shrugs. "Tell me if you see a gas station. Your 'vehicle' needs fuel."

"Are you mocking me?"

He laughs. "I believe I am."

Myka rolls her eyes. "Fine. There was a sign about a mile ago saying that a town is coming up soon."

Pete smiles. "Do you notice everything?"

"Details are important," Myka replies, her arms crossed.

"I think living in the moment is more important."

"Oh, and what tells you that?"

"My gut," Pete answers.

"Feelings aren't always reliable," she argues.

"But, feelings can't be misrepresented the way details can."

"The detailed details never lie."

"Detailed details?" Pete mocks.

Myka looks at him, glaring. "The little details, the minuscule ones," she elucidates.

"A woman of many words," Pete grins.

"Your exit is right up ahead," Myka says, pointing off in front of them. "Turn."

Pete resists the urge to roll his eyes at the 'no-nonsense' tone in her voice. "I'm hungry. You want anything?"

"Yeah. Lunch. Twizzlers," she replies.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Don't ask, just drive," Myka growls.

Pete laughs.

This was fun.

* * *

Hope everybody liked tonight's Christmas episode! Tell me your favorite moment in a review!


	7. Chapter 7: Myka

_Sorry for the delay. Enjoy. _

_I don't own Warehouse 13. _

* * *

1994-Myka

Well, this was fun, Myka thought to herself sarcastically.

"Come on, now, smile!" the diner owner urges them.

Myka tries to think up an excuse, but there was nothing coming to mind.

She and Pete are pushed towards a tiny photo booth, shoved in the corner of the Hollywood themed diner.

She trips over the lip of the booth, and lands against the wall, as Pete follows close behind, his arms caging her in.

"Oh, it'll be fine," Myka hisses. "You were hungry. Why the heck did we end up in the craziest diner in all of the Western continental U.S.?"

"Hey," Pete tilts his head, not bothering to move, as the over-enthusiastic owner of the diner giggled loudly behind them. "You wanted Twizzlers."

"Oh, please. Don't try and blame this on me," she retorts.

The owner's hand darts inside and presses a button. "Smile!" she crows, pulling the red curtain closed.

After a moment of maneuvering—which is more awkward than Myka would ever want to relive, she thinks as Pete attempts to sit on the bench without stepping on her feet and ends up with his face against her stomach as the camera flashes—they manage to pretend to smile for the remaining two photos.

"We're leaving now."

"I have to pay, but then, yeah. Get your Twizzlers," Pete says, his voice scratchy and dry.

Myka nods and exits the photo booth, gracefully avoiding tripping this time.

Ten minutes later, the two teens say nothing as their seatbelts click into place.

"Next time," Myka says slowly as Pete puts the key in the ignition, "we're eating at a McDonalds."

He can't help but nod in agreement.

* * *

"This can't be it," Pete comments, looking around at the sparse buildings that made up Univille, South Dakota.

"That was the address, I swear. Univille, in South Dakota. That's where the Warehouse should be."

"Myka, there's nothing here," Pete says, pulling into a parking space next to the hardware store. "Sure, there's a post office and a barbershop, but none of this screams weird, freaky diary from the past with random people bursting into flames."

"Things rarely shout Warehouse," a man says softly next to them.

Myka tries not to scream, clutching the door handle. "Who are you?" she snaps.

"Artie Nielson."

Pete snorts "What kind of name is 'Artie?'"

Myka glares at him before turning back to the Russian man in surprise. "So, you're Artie."

"And you're Myka. Quite an articulate letter writer, I understand," he says, walking to the barber pole mounted on the building across the street. He digs in his bag and pulls out a large bar-like object.

"What is—" Myka begins.

The object buzzes as the barber pole turns purple.

"Whoa," Pete says under his breath, staring at the object, reminiscent of a fluorescent light bulb.

Seconds later, Artie closes it. "Follow me."

"Where are we going?" Myka asks, as she gets out of the car.

Artie tosses a glance over his shoulder at her. "For ice cream."

"I'm in," Pete grins, shutting the door of the Corvette.

Myka huffs to herself, following them. "Don't you think they are more important things to do? Like, oh, I don't know, but talk about what my letter was about?"

"I have strict instructions that we should go out for ice cream. Then, we're to go to the B&B. The Dawsons are… familiar with artifacts."

"Instructions?" Pete asks.

Myka turns pale, catching a glimpse of a tall woman in an orange skirt suit. She swings around to look at Pete.

"I can't believe you did this. I believed you, that you weren't a part of this. I trusted you!" she snaps at him. The teenager lunges at him, and he dodges behind Artie.

"Children," Artie scolds as Myka circles around him. "Children!"

Pete takes one look at Myka's fuming eyes and runs for the ice cream shop. He trips on the sidewalk, and ends up landing in the flower bed of a very angry shop owner.

She goes to kick him in the stomach, and he reaches one arm out, wrapping it around the leg she was balancing on. Myka hits the grass next to him.

"What. The. Heck?" he asks, breathing heavily from the chase.

She crawls over and starts pummeling him. "How could you? How _could_ you?!" she shrieks, crossing her arms and sitting back in the grass.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, perplexed.

"She's here. Mrs. Fredric. You're a piece of work, Lattimer," Myka accuses, wrapping her arms around her knees and curling up like a child. "I thought I could trust you. F's diary… what it said was true! I don't care what this plan is. I don't. I will _never_ trust you again. Ever."

The bells above the door of the ice cream shop chime.

"Good work, Mr. Lattimer," Mrs. Fredric says, looking down at the two teenagers on the lawn.

Myka gives him a dirty look and accepts Artie's hand to stand up. "Thank you," she murmurs.

Pete rises and brushes off the legs of his jeans. "I wasn't a part of this," Pete assures Myka, but she won't even face him. "I wasn't!" he insists.

"Not directly," Mrs. Fredric agrees. "Arthur, please drive Ms. Bering to the Bed and Breakfast."

"This way, Ms. Bering," Artie directs, pointing towards a small red 1959 Jaguar that Myka knew Pete would comment on, had he been with them.

Myka crosses her arms, petulantly ignoring the Warehouse agent as he drives the seven miles from Univille to the B&B.

"Hi, Artie," a girl greets him, standing up on the porch.

Artie sends her a smile. "Leena."

Myka follows Artie to the front door, hands clasped.

"Hi. I'm Leena. You're… Myka, right?"

Myka studies the girl, who was slightly older than herself and Pete. "How could you possibly…" her question fades out as Artie ushers her inside.

"You can't scare them like that," Arthur Nielson says.

The nineteen-year old shrugs. "She's confused, and mad. She is searching for answers, and she'll do anything to get them."

He nods, and pats her shoulder awkwardly before entering her parents' Bed & Breakfast. Leena rolls her eyes at the man nearly twenty years her senior and follows him inside.

"Oatmeal scotchies?" the Jewish man asks.

Mrs. Dawson nods, handing a glass of lemonade to Myka with a small smile. "It's alright, dear. He's a teddy-bear."

Amusement dances in Myka's eyes. "He's not the one I'm worried about," she admits, hands shaking.

"Mrs. Fredric's not so bad either."

"If you say so," the teen mumbles into her lemonade as another car pulls up into the driveway.

Pete gets out, but no one was with him. Myka breathes a sigh of relief.

"Ms. Bering?"

Myka shrieks and drops her lemonade.

"Mrs. Fredric," Leena acknowledges with a nod, before picking up the shards of glass on the carpet.

The younger girl whispers, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Really," Leena tries to convince the sixteen year old.

Pete walks inside, making eyes at the younger girl as she retreats to the kitchen.

"Really, Pete?" Myka hisses as he sits down.

He grins, snatching a cookie from the plate on the table. "What?"

She glares at him as Artie carries on a whispered conversation with the imposing Mrs. Fredric. She can catch snippets of his worried chatter.

"…You sure? I mean… barely…each other. How…?" he mutters.

"Arthur. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary." Her orange dress-suit stood out against her skin, but she still made a commanding presence as she turned to Pete and Myka.

"We have a mission for you."


End file.
